The girl in Samuel’s sophomore history class had chestnut hair and a long, dark face with deep pools for eyes. Jennifer Hutchins was taller than most boys in the grade, and wore a silver retainer that imprisoned her teeth and her gums. For the last three months, Samuel kept a high school yearbook open to Jennifer’s class photo under his pillow. A late night TV ad for the psychic hotline had guaranteed this as a way to awaken love in another person.
At the beginning of each history lesson, Samuel waited until she found a seat, then rushed to the nearest empty desk. Once settled, he’d watch her wrap hair around a finger or pull at the gum in her mouth, wishing he were close enough to feel her breath or inhale the flowers of her shampoo.
He spotted her from time to time at the arcade. Once, she was outside wearing stonewashed jeans that were rolled at the bottom. She was holding a large flat box with leftover pizza and waiting at the curb for someone to pull up. Samuel imagined her in the summer without shoes and socks, riding in her parents’ minivan with her feet on the dash, wearing turned-up shorts and a thin, delicate blouse through which he could discern softness.
We don’t know exactly how many died, the teacher told the class, looking at some dates he’d written on the chalkboard, but it was a lot, a whole lot of people. Try and imagine it by picturing stadiums full of men, women, and children. All dead in their seats.
That’s gross, said a girl in the front row.
A boy at the back raised his hand. The students followed their teacher’s gaze and turned to look.
Yes, Raymond? You have a question?
Er, did they have stadiums back then, sir? In the olden days?
A few people chuckled, then waited to hear what the teacher would say.
Well, yes, actually. But not like the ones you see on TV. The idea of an arena or stadium is actually very old. Does anybody know how old?
A thousand years? suggested a girl beside the window.
Everyone laughed at that.
King Arthur! said someone in a fake British accent.
The teacher smiled. Older. Much, much, much older, folks.
Most of the class was now paying close attention.
The teacher leaned toward them. Who has heard of ancient Rome?
The students looked around to see if anyone was nodding or had their hand up.
The Romans didn’t play football or baseball . . . but they did have gladiatorial combat.
There was a shuffling of approval among the boys.
The teacher nodded. You’ve all seen movies about that, I guess.
Jennifer Hutchins was just two seats ahead. Samuel raised his hand in the hope she might turn around.
Yes, Samuel?
It was a fight to the death, wasn’t it? In the Roman stadiums?
In most cases that’s an accurate statement. Then the teacher looked around the room. People were starting to lose interest and talk amongst themselves.
Now listen up, everyone, listen to this, please, because this is a hard question but will get us back on topic: How do the Romans have anything to do with smallpox and how it decimated the indigenous population of Native Americans?
The teacher meant it for everybody, but his eyes had come back to Samuel. The class waited for him to say something they could mock.
Suffering and pain, Samuel said with a confidence that took the teacher by surprise. Jennifer Hutchins was still looking, her dark eyes just pouring into him.
Now that’s interesting, the teacher said. Care to take it further, Samuel?
Well, I guess both the Romans and the European settlers were invaders, right? They both brought suffering and pain . . . the Romans through war and the Europeans through disease.
That is a thoroughly accurate statement, everyone. And in most periods of history it’s safe to say that ordinary folks like you and me suffered the most, not the leaders who gave the orders, or the rich, the powerful, and the famous.
Like Michael Jackson, sir?
How about Madonna? Like a virgin!
The teacher was holding chalk up to the board, about to write something. He waited for the waves of laughter to pass.
Settle down, everyone. What I meant to say is that history has been recorded by the victors, not the defeated or disenfranchised.
Then Samuel felt his mouth moving impulsively. I think that’s wrong, sir.
The class fell silent. Jennifer Hutchins twisted around again. She was biting her finger this time. After meeting her eyes, Samuel dropped his gaze to the almost imperceptible lines on her lips. Her body was fully turned in its chair and light from the window was breaking on her shoulder in tiny, dazzling pools. Samuel rubbed his forehead to cover one side of his face.
The teacher was looking at him and everyone in the classroom was quiet.
What I mean . . . Samuel said, his voice hesitant now, is that if the victors write history, how can we trust anything we read?
The teacher put down his chalk and sat on the corner of his desk. He closed his eyes, and the children thought he was angry, but when he spoke, it was in a tone that surprised them.
To be honest with you all, what Samuel’s saying is really the most important question any historian can ask. If you leave school with one thing from my class it should be this. If you open that book on your desks, it’ll still tell you that Christopher Columbus discovered America.
Why is that wrong, sir? a boy at the back wanted to know.
It’s not wrong, but it tells us that the history we read today is from the perspective of Europeans. Otherwise, it would say that America was discovered by people during the last Ice Age, walking across what was then a frozen sea. The European settlers would not be at the beginning of the book, but somewhere near the end.
Most of the students went quiet, but others were starting to quietly pack away their things. The teacher looked at the clock, then jumped up from the desk.
Homework tonight is to finish chapter fourteen and please pick the Native tribe you want to study. I’d recommend Cherokee, as this is Kentucky.
He looked to the back of the room, to a student who seldom raised his hand or spoke to others. We’ve got at least one student here descended from the Cherokee Nation, isn’t that right, Eddie Walker?
Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at the boy in the black leather jacket, who was staring at his desk, not moving. There were names and curses etched into the wood, and Eddie read them, said their names in his head.
The room filled with excited chatter and the sound of schoolbags being zipped.
Listen up! said the teacher, trying to speak over the din. If you do choose the Cherokee, start with the Trail of Tears section in the book and work backwards.
When the bell finally rang, there was a mad scramble. But Samuel hung back, waiting for Jennifer to put away her things. He wanted to stand behind her in the lunch line.
At the back of the classroom Eddie rose from his seat with a yawn. He seldom brought any supplies to school, except for a crumpled piece of paper that remained blank. He stuffed it back into his pocket. Since his arrest in the middle of freshman year for possession of drugs, most students avoided him. At recess he went outside and hung around the gym, smoking cigarettes. None of the teachers seemed to care, so long as he kept out of their way.
When Samuel’s parents found out Eddie was on drugs, they warned their son to be kind but keep his distance. Almost every night, there was something on the television news about young people, addicted and dying.
It’s his choice if he wants to fill himself with that junk, Samuel’s father had said. But I don’t want you involved, do you hear, son?
But Dad, Samuel protested, he’s my best friend.
Well, then, give him the space to figure this out.
A mass of students moved slowly through the bright halls, past rows of gray, dimpled lockers. The aroma of food filled the air, and two lines began to form in readiness for a hot meal and a plastic cup of soda.
Samuel had timed it perfectly and was one person away from Jennifer Hutchins, who stood beside her best friend Megan. He wondered if she would say anything about his comment in class, or about their teacher sitting on the desk and closing his eyes. But the girls seemed preoccupied, giggling and covering their mouths. Samuel repeated to himself over and over that it wasn’t his eye they were talking about, but something he could not imagine that was amusing only to girls when they were together.
The two lunch lines were made up of students who paid for food and students who received free meals. Although Samuel and Eddie didn’t spend much time together anymore, they sometimes met up when both lines converged at the trays. Then they would talk for as long as they could. Eddie had gotten thinner in the last year. There were shadows under his eyes and a hot rash of acne that circled his mouth. He was in Louisville a lot with his mother and sometimes missed weeks of school. Nobody knew why. But when Samuel saw him smoking behind the gym, he would sometimes go over to talk—tell his friend he loved him and that they would always be brothers. Eddie would nod and touch his gelled hair. There was nothing to say because everything that had once mattered to him and that he found beautiful had long been hidden away from the surface of his life.
Since his drug arrest, Eddie had not been allowed over to Samuel’s house. Alfredia had treated the boys to a Mexican dinner three months before for Samuel’s fifteenth birthday. When they got to the restaurant Eddie was already there, and had been in the booth long enough to drink a pitcher of water. Country music played in the dining room and Eddie said they should go to McDonalds and play Mexican music. When everyone laughed, his face lit up.
Samuel and the other students inched toward the hot, wet trays being stacked by the cafeteria crew in coveralls and hairnets. Then Samuel heard laughing and saw students being pushed aside, as though a small tornado was winding its way between the lines. A backpack was suddenly flung through the air, and somebody darted from the line after it. A moment later, Taylor Radley, a senior wrestling champion, pushed in behind Samuel with two of his friends. The lunch monitor had left to put a fresh box of milk in the machine, so there was no one to say anything.
Taylor’s hair was curly blond and long at the back. There were tiny moles on his face and arms. He had once pinned a boy’s head against a window of the school bus just to make everyone inside the bus laugh. Samuel could feel Taylor’s eyes boring into the back of his head. He continued to look straight ahead, at Jennifer and Megan, toward where hot food was being served and plastic cups were being placed upside down on trays.
Hey, Samuel!
Samuel feigned distraction by looking at his Casio survival watch, a recent birthday present from Grandma Carol and Grandpa Joe.
Samuel! Roberts! Hey!
Having no choice, he turned.
Do something for me Samuel, huh?
What’s that, buddy?
Ask Jennifer Bitchins something for me.
The two friends bobbed their heads with excitement.
Oh Jennifer? I don’t know her that well guys.
Taylor laughed. I bet you’d like to though, right?
Samuel laughed weakly.
Ask if her cherry’s been popped.
People in the lunch line stopped talking and turned to listen.
C’mon, Samuel, ask her that. You know what a cherry is, right?
Samuel felt his heart fluttering as though a small bird was trapped inside of it. The meal he had been looking forward to now made him feel sick.
You can see me, can’t ya, Samuel? Taylor said, moving his head from side to side. With that funny little eye of yours swirling around in there.
He looks like a clown!
Shut up, Jesse, Taylor said. That ain’t right. Don’t say that about Samuel. C’mon, what’s wrong with you?
Samuel rubbed his forehead and looked down at the new sneakers his mother had bought for him at the mall last weekend.
He don’t look nothing like a clown, Taylor continued. To be honest, he looks more like a retard.
People in the lunch line gasped with horror and excitement. In Samuel’s mind flashed an image of the Native Americans from class, their bodies rotten with smallpox, a disease wished upon them by men and women, who the teacher had said, felt little to no remorse.
Well, you gonna do it, chicken shit?
Samuel looked and could see that Jennifer Hutchins was embarrassed and afraid. Her long arms were folded across her body. She was no longer laughing or covering her mouth, but closing like a flower at dusk.
C’mon, fuckhead! Ask Bitchins if her cherry’s bin popped!
Taylor and his friends jeered. Whatcha waitin’ for?
Samuel tried to think of something to say that would make everything go back to the way it had been. But his voice felt small, and his limbs weak and empty—as though in a dream and bound by ropes of sleep.
He’s just another retard like his Uncle Rusty, Taylor said, turning to his friends. I’ve seen him at Walmart greeting people like a big, dumb piece of shit.
Samuel felt anger rise up like a fiery head, consuming all the fear in its path. He surged forward and shoved Taylor hard in the chest. The boy was stunned for a moment, then reached an arm around Samuel’s neck and pulled him down into a headlock.
Think you can fuckin’ push me, Roberts? You retard!
Samuel’s head filled with blood. He was looking at the tiles of the cafeteria. Each one was slightly different. Suddenly it was hard to breathe.
Tell everyone what a retard you are, Roberts. Go on, say it.
But Samuel couldn’t speak or open his mouth.
There was a loud bang and Taylor’s arm released. Samuel straightened up, gasping for air, as a lunch tray was smashed again into the boy’s face. With the third blow he fell down, blinking madly and trying to shield himself from the onslaught. One of Taylor’s friends tried to grab the tray, but Eddie shoved the edge of it into the boy’s throat and he went down too, with a spluttering sound that made people scream. There was blood on the tiles of the cafeteria and on the back of the tray. Taylor’s face was soon a red mask. Eddie dropped the tray then and took off.
Everyone was trying to make sense of what they had seen. Two of the cooks burst from the kitchen and shoved everyone aside. A moment later they heard shouting, and the school nurse appeared with her bag at the end of the corridor. No one had ever seen her run before. She got down on her knees and began fumbling with rolls of gauze. The cafeteria workers were trying to get everyone to move back.
Taylor was crying and trying to speak. He had lost a tooth and there was blood in his eyes.
When the ambulance pulled up outside with lights blazing, paramedics wheeled a stretcher through the cafeteria’s emergency exit doors. Food service had stopped, and students were being told to leave the area and go back to their homerooms.
A girl standing near Samuel turned to her friend. Oh my God, he’s psycho! she said. I hope they lock him up. It didn’t occur to Samuel they weren’t talking about Taylor Radley.
At the beginning of next period, the teacher came in and told everyone in a monotone voice to take out their books and start reading from page fifty-nine. Samuel had looked everywhere for Eddie but figured he was halfway back to the trailer park by now.
Then a few minutes into the lesson, the door opened very slowly. Eddie slinked in and went quickly to his seat without looking at the teacher or any of the students. No one said anything as he took the crumped piece of white paper from his jacket and set it on the desk. The teacher watched Eddie settle in and then went out. A moment later there were rapid footsteps in the corridor. The door opened quickly. It was the principal with two police officers. Eddie stood at the sight of them. The two cops unclicked the straps on their gun holsters. Two students near Eddie slid down under their desks.
Easy now, one of the cops said. We just want to go outside and hear your side of the story, that’s all.
Eddie spun around and put his hands on his head with a casualness that made him seem too old for high school.
The cops rushed forward and handcuffed him. Eddie’s black Levi jeans and leather jacket were dusty from where he had been hiding in a storage closet. He looked tired and hardly able to walk. It all seemed unfair somehow to Samuel, that some people were allowed to be violent and others were not. He would have told his history teacher it was injustice in their own time. But knowledge felt useless to him in that moment, like a key without anything to open.
Then as Eddie approached the classroom door he jerked out of the officers’ grip. There was a scuffle and he was pushed to the ground as the police fought to regain control. Samuel could hear the leather jacket creaking as his best friend struggled in vain to be free.